Solution Manual for Living in the Environment Principles, Connections, and Solutions, 17th E

Living in the Environment Principles, Connections,

and Solutions, 17th

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 Table of Contents
PART I: HUMANS AND SUSTAINABILITY: AN OVERVIEW.

1. Environmental Problems, Their Causes, and Sustainability. PART II: SCIENCE,

ECOLOGICAL PRINCIPLES, AND SUSTAINABILITY.

2. Science, Matter, Energy, and Systems.

3. Ecosystems: What Are They and How Do They Work?

4. Biodiversity and Evolution.

5. Biodiversity, Species Interactions, and Population Control.

6. The Human Population and Its Impact.

7. Climate and Biodiversity.

8. Aquatic Biodiversity. PART III: SUSTAINING BIODIVERSITY.

9. Sustaining Biodiversity: The Species Approach.

10. Sustaining Terrestrial Biodiversity: The Ecosystem Approach.

11. Sustaining Aquatic Biodiversity. PART IV: SUSTAINING NATURAL

RESOURCES.
12. Food, Soil, and Pest Management.

13. Water Resources.

14. Geology and Nonrenewable Minerals.

15. Nonrenewable Energy.

16. Energy Efficiency and Renewable Energy. PART V: SUSTAINING

ENVIRONMENTAL QUALITY.

17. Environmental Hazards and Human Health.

18. Air Pollution.

19. Climate Disruption and Ozone Depletion.

20. Water Pollution.

21. Solid and Hazardous Waste.

22. Sustainable Cities. PART VI: SUSTAINING HUMAN SOCIETIES.

23. Economics, Environment, and Sustainability.

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breaking up of such an establishment. On one side were the pale and
sorrowful faces of the late queen’s personal followers, who sincerely
mourned the loss of a good and charitable mistress; on the other were the
hard, shrewd countenances of the king’s commissioners, intent only on
fulfilling an unpleasant duty, and not a little relieved that the cause of so
much dissension, and such a menace to the peace of the realm, was finally
removed. It was a curious scene, and one to teach a lesson in the futility of
all earthly ambitions, the fleeting pride of all worldly honors.
In a window recess of the hall stood Mistress Carew, cloaked and muffled
for a journey, and at her side was Master Raby. The two stood looking down
into the crowded court and talking in low tones. She was to ride with her
uncle to Greenwich upon some errand,—what she knew not, but she had
much curiosity to learn, nursing a hope that she was to have a glimpse of
the court. However, she kept her own counsel, and listened with a serious
face to the talk of her companion.
“This matter has been a grief to the king’s grace,” he said, speaking too low
for any ears but those of his fair auditor; “I would not have believed that he
could be so moved thereat. ’Tis said that when he read her last letter, he
wept and lamented her.”
“Do men always weep so late?” asked Mistress Betty, coldly, her bright
eyes turning scornfully upon the speaker; “forsooth, sir, I would rather be
treated with more kindness while I lived than so lamented in death.”
Master Raby was taken by surprise. The sudden sharpness of her tone, her
expressive glance, came after a passive attitude of attention.
“And so would I,” he said heartily; “yet surely, mistress, a late repentance is
better than none.”
“I would have none of it,” retorted his companion, with disdain; “had I been
treated like this queen, I would never have written so loving a letter to the
king, no, not I! Poor lady! she was too meek, or, perhaps, too good a
Christian. A little more spirit would have made him mend his ways in time.
I do think that never was a woman who deserved more pity.”
“There are some who would call your speech treasonable, Mistress Carew,”
Raby said, but his eyes were full of amusement as he looked at the flushed,
angry face before him; “speak not too warmly in this lady’s cause before
other witnesses, I pray you.”
“Sir, she was hardly used,” declared Betty, stoutly; “I would say so if you
were the king’s highness.”
“And if you said it with that tone and look, I do wager he would pardon
you,” exclaimed the other, smiling; “indeed, I believe the king has known
some hours of regret. At least, he has ordered the court into deep mourning;
but the queen—” Raby shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
“Queen Anne Boleyn? What of her?” asked the young girl, a certain scorn
in her fresh voice.
“Queen Anne and all her ladies are wearing yellow,” Raby said, “and a
curious spectacle it is. They do say she has remarked that she only regretted
that the Lady Catherine made so good an end.”
“’Tis a shame,” cried Betty; “she is but a harlequin to dress so. This queen
was a good woman, and so deserves all respect.”
“It is reported that she plotted with the Spaniards against this realm,”
remarked her companion, watching her face.
Mistress Betty flushed rose-red; the thought of the hidden packet came to
her mind. This charge she could neither parry nor deny, but her pity for the
dead woman outlived her horror of treasonable practices. She lifted her
head haughtily.
“And so would I, if I had been born a Spaniard and so suffered at the hands
of the English,” she declared; “it was only human.”
At this Master Raby laughed outright. The dead queen’s champion was
irresistible in her youth and beauty and that fearlessness which was her
birthright. He drew her out, delighted at the frankness and spirit of her
speech; he was a courtier, sated, too, with the follies and the pleasures of
that gilded life, a much admired gallant, a favorite with the ladies of Queen
Anne, but here was a fresh experience and he found it irresistible.
Meanwhile, Mistress Betty, whose nature was cast in a sharper outline, who
saw things with the uncompromising eyes of youth, scarcely detected his
enjoyment of the little dialogue.
“Truly, it would be dangerous to offend you, Mistress Carew,” he said, still
laughing softly; “but take you no thought of that other aspect of the affair?
The peril to the state, the sharp necessity of loyalty when the kingdom is in
peril, and the Bishop of Rome would bring us all to disaster if he could. Has
he not caused his bulls to be nailed up on every church door in Flanders,
and held us up as a legitimate prey for the faithful? Was it not wrong for
this princess who had been a queen of England to desire the desolation of
this realm?”
Betty stood a moment thinking, biting her lip and pressing her hands
together. After a moment she looked up into Master Raby’s amused eyes,
and her cheeks burned.
“I believe that I should have done worse,” she cried, “if any one had dared
to so insult me.”
“Happily, Mistress Carew, no man would ever attempt it,” said her
companion, softly; “your face is too fair to be so soon forgotten. This poor
lady was older than the king and never handsome, nor did his grace ever
love her.”
“More shame to him!” said Betty, sharply; “she was his wife.”
Master Raby laughed again. “Ah, Mistress Carew,” he said, “you must talk
with my lord of Canterbury! Must a man love a woman because she is his
wife?”
Betty gave him a swift, sidelong glance. “Sir,” she said demurely, “I know
nothing of a man’s heart, but I have heard that it is like a mirror and reflects
every face that looks in it, only that, unlike a mirror, you may never break
it.”
“You are young to be so cruel,” her companion cried, delighted, “and verily,
mistress, you will find many hearts do break before you make one blest.”
“You are a courtier, Master Raby,” she replied, “and have a readier wit than
mine, but you can never make me admire the woman who broke this good
queen’s heart.”
“Nay,” he answered softly, “it is you, fair Mistress Betty, who will make me
do your bidding, not I you.”
At this, she blushed the color of a fresh June rose, being as yet unused to
fine speeches, and Master Raby stood looking at her, thinking her fairer
than any beauty of the court, when Sir William Carew came up and cut the
conversation short.
“Come, niece,” he said briefly, “we ride at once. And you, Raby, will you
bear us company or no?”
“I thank you, yes, Sir William,” he replied with alacrity; “all is in readiness;
the horses at the door, and my man, whom you admired so much, in
attendance.”
“The knave will hang,” rejoined Carew, grimly. “Come, Betty, there is no
time for fine speeches or farewells. I must set out for Greenwich without
delay, and you go with me.”
“Whither, uncle?” said Betty, quickly; “surely not to the court?”
“And wherefore surely not?” asked Sir William, testily.
“I know not what you will do with me there,” his niece said softly.
“You go to the queen’s grace, my girl,” Carew replied grimly, “if she will
have you.”
Master Raby smiled and glanced at Betty.
“’Tis come, Mistress Carew,” he whispered, as he helped her to the saddle.
“I pray thee tell the king thy mind.”
“And so I will, if he asks me, Master Raby,” declared Betty, with spirit,
“and, mayhap, it will do him good. A bitter truth is ofttimes wholesome
medicine.”
 CHAPTER IX
THE MAN WITH A SCAR
I was a cold and dreary night in London, and through the mist the lights of
the inn blinked like great yellow eyes. Within the public room there was
much jovial entertainment. It was well filled with guests, some drinking,
others playing at dice, and a few eating belated suppers. It was an
establishment much patronized by men of fashion, and the assembly was of
a less motley character than that of most public houses. Two or three young
gentlemen in velvets and satins, with ruffs of fine lace and jewel-hilted
weapons, threw dice at one table, while at another sat a stately personage in
black velvet, perusing some parchments with the assistance of a shrewd-
faced, deferential companion, the one having the appearance of an eminent
jurist and the other being, no doubt, his clerk. At yet another table sat some
travellers, whose fur-trimmed garments and full wallets suggested wealthy
merchants. Mine host bustled about with a rubicund and smiling
countenance, attended by several servants and a rosy-faced Hebe bearing
the wine cups and glasses. The innkeeper had the air of one who felt his
pockets filling and his reputation growing at the same moment; a state of
bliss seldom attained except by those who minister to the inner man, the
way to a man’s purse, as well as to his heart, being through his stomach.
There was a buzz of conversation, the rattle of dice, the click of glasses, but
it was yet too early for the potations to take effect, and there was perfect
decorum upon all sides.
Beyond this room, which was for public entertainment, there was a smaller
one, opening into it by a low door, in one panel of which was a little
window, a mere aperture, and through this the occupant of the private
apartment might survey the outer room with slight risk of being discovered,
—a convenient peep-hole, where mine host could spy upon his guests at
pleasure. It was a small place and nearly filled by a table and two chairs. On
opposite sides of this table were seated now two men engaged in earnest
conversation. The tapers burning between them shed their light on the faces
of both. To the right sat a little man clad in a russet cloak, the wizard
Sanders; on the left, was quite a different person. The stranger was tall and
well made, fully forty years of age, and with a face that, while it was
handsome in a coarse, bold fashion, was also rather sinister in expression,
and with a sensual mouth and chin. He was very dark, his hair, already
touched with gray on the temples, accentuating the olive tint of his
complexion, and his eyes being light gray, the effect was not altogether
pleasing. Yet his features were fine and only marred by the scar of a sword-
cut, which almost obliterated his left eyebrow. His dress was of the richest,
his cloak covered with gold embroidery, and the green satin doublet slashed
with white brocade, while his hands, white and soft as a woman’s, were
jewelled. His embroidered gloves lay on the table beside his rapier, the hilt
of which was beautiful in workmanship and glistened with precious stones.
He sat with his elbow on the table, leaning his head upon his hand and
listening to the wizard, who was speaking in low tones, though no ear could
hear him but his companion’s.
“The trump card is gone,” he said calmly, his keen eyes watching the other
narrowly, “but we have yet the Lady Mary.”
“Tush!” ejaculated his friend, “what of that? ’Tis said the king may have a
boy.”
The wizard shook his head with a slow smile.
“Never,” he said composedly. “Henry has ill luck with his men children.
This gay lady is falling out of favor, too; another star riseth yonder.”
“Ay, so they say,” retorted the other, gloomily; “but the change is like to
bring us small comfort, if it comes. We shall have no merry time until we
get the base blood out of the council; yonder hell-hound tracks us by the
scent. I would he were begging again at the door of Master Friskyball.”
“Look you, Sir Barton,” rejoined the wizard, “my lord privy seal is more
like to pull you by the pate than you him;” and Sanders laughed with
wicked amusement as he eyed his listener. “Bear in mind the fate of Ap
Ryce, and be not too forward. Cromwell is beating the bush for traitors, and
if he finds you,” again the little man laughed unpleasantly, “a short shrift
and your head would grin on London Bridge.”
“And if it does, why, curse you, so shall yours, you evil spirit!” Sir Barton
cried with a fierce outbreak of temper, the mocking tone of Sanders having
struck him like a goad.
“Pshaw!” retorted the wizard, coolly, “why fall out so swiftly? I do not fear
you, man, or any one. Think you I am so great a fool as to play this game
and lose? Who was it that dealt secretly with the Nun of Kent?”
He was watching the other with malicious enjoyment; noting the start of
amazement and fear, he leaned back and laughed with a fiendish delight that
enraged the dark man still more.
“You are a fiend!” Sir Barton said between his set teeth. “I tell you,
Sanders, if you betray me, I will send you to the devil before you can grin
that hellish grin of yours twice.”
Undaunted either by the threats or the furious aspect of the man, the little
wizard laughed with apparently intense amusement.
“Come, come, Sir Barton,” he said mockingly, “sit, man; ’tis not in your
horoscope that you should murder me. I find you useful,” he added in a
changed tone, “and you, I believe, have found me so. Waste no more threats
upon me; I fear you as little as the snake that I keep in my chamber, and
whose fangs I drew long since, although he is still excellent to scare women
and children. Save your excessive fury until such time as the Spaniards and
the Irish come to set my Lady Mary on the throne, when we shall live right
merrily again and this same king shall die as did the man-queller Richard.”
“If we die not first and rot for our part in it,” retorted his companion,
sullenly, having recovered his composure.
“You are not wont to be so downcast, Sir Barton,” the astrologer remarked,
“nor need be. Cromwell’s new notion of parish registers is working for us
among the vulgar; they believe it but a design to find the means of taxing
them, and that they shall no longer eat white meat or fowls without paying
dues to the king’s grace. More than half this realm is with us; and of the
peers, from his grace of Norfolk down, I think they love not the new order
of things, nor do they like the rule of the cloth-shearer’s son.”
“Ay,” replied his companion, “we are like to have Lord Hussey and Darcy,
besides the Nevilles and the faction of the White Rose. ’Tis certain we can
raise the northern counties when the time is ripe, and then, the devil take me
if I be not the first to thrust a sword in Cromwell’s belly!” He rose as he
spoke and took up his weapon, handling it as if he loved the thought of the
use for which he intended it.
“The devil is very like to have thee, friend,” retorted the wizard, smiling;
“but hark! what stir is that without? Some new-comers are in the
courtyard.”
Sir Barton walked to the door, and pushing back the slide which had closed
the window in the panel, he looked into the public room.
“It is a party of travellers,” he said carelessly; and then changing his tone,
“’tis Sir William Carew of Mohun’s Ottery, that young coxcomb Raby, and
a woman—a handsome one at that,” he added with an oath.
The wizard, who was watching him as a cat watches a mouse, smiled
maliciously.
“Is it a young maid?” he asked, “tall and fine-shaped as Diana, with red
cheeks and great brown eyes that sparkle and change at every glance, and
with hair like the raven’s wing?”
“You have made a fair description,” the tall man replied, “but, by heaven,
you cannot do her justice! She is muffled up, but I saw her face as she came
in, and she’s a beauty.”
The wizard laughed again so wickedly that Sir Barton turned on him.
“Thou grinning devil!” he said; “what is sticking in thy gullet?”
“’Tis retribution, sir,” Sanders said coolly; “you discarded a penniless
betrothed. Penniless she is, but marvellous fair.”
An expression of amazement tinged with superstitious dread came over his
companion’s face.
“How in the fiend’s name do you track men out?” he asked.
The wizard pointed upward. “The stars, noble sir,” he answered meekly;
“my poor art.”
“Who is this beauty?” Sir Barton demanded sharply; “you know well
enough.”
“Ay, I know,” replied Sanders, calmly; “no velvet-tempered kitten, either.
’Tis Sir William’s niece, the daughter of that rake, Sir Thomas.”
Sir Barton, uttering an exclamation of profane surprise, opened the door and
walked into the public room, leaving the wizard alone in the little closet.
Sir William Carew was talking with the host, while in a retired corner, near
the entrance, stood Mistress Betty, and beside her, Master Raby. The young
girl’s mantle was muffled about her shoulders, but her hood had fallen back
a little, revealing enough of the face beneath to draw the attention of many
of the guests. But she was so busily engaged in talking to her companion
that she was unconscious of the admiring glances cast in her direction. A
servant had brought some hot drinks for the party and would have set a
table for them, but this Sir William refused, saying that he was pressed for
time. Sir Barton walked up to him, to be received in no very friendly
fashion, Carew’s greeting indicating plainly that he desired no company
upon the road. After an ineffectual attempt at conversation, the other drew
back haughtily, but stood watching Mistress Betty, until the persistency of
his gaze attracted the attention of her cavalier, who moved between, giving
the offender a hard glance that was intended to teach him better manners. It
was returned in kind, the two men looking defiance at each other over the
heads of those who sat at the tables. In a few moments, however, Sir
William led his party out again to resume their journey. As Raby helped
Betty into the saddle, he saw the tall man standing on the threshold of the
inn.
“Your uncle’s friend must needs follow still, Mistress Carew,” he remarked;
“the impudent knave never took his eyes from your face; he deserves
chastisement.”
Betty laughed softly. “Nay, sir,” she said in an amused tone, “surely the
curiosity of a stranger is no great offence.”
“I should be the happier for laying my sword across his shoulders, for all
that,” retorted her companion.
The young girl glanced at the dark figure on the threshold with new interest;
she was not without enjoyment of the admiration that she was beginning to
receive. One of the stable-boys came running with a lighted torch to help
Sir William to adjust his saddle. Master Raby bent forward and took Betty’s
bridle rein.
“Let me guide thy beast, Mistress Carew,” he said.
But she heard him not. The light of the torch flared full on the figure in the
door. Even through the mist, which hung between like a thin veil, she saw
the glittering dress, the dark face, and the scar across the left eyebrow.
A moment afterwards, Carew’s party rode out of the yard.
“Uncle, uncle,” cried Mistress Betty, in a strange voice, “who was yonder
dark man that spoke with you?”
“’Twas Henge, Sir Barton Henge,” said Carew; “but what is that to thee,
wench?”
 CHAPTER X
MISTRESS BETTY GOES TO COURT
I was an hour before noon and the gates of Greenwich palace stood open.
A crowd of attendants and gentlemen ushers were assembled in the
anterooms, and the royal guards lined the halls. The king and queen were
holding a levee, and, as usual, there was a great concourse of people, and
the river was dotted with barges, wherries and all sorts of water-craft.
Sir William Carew had just landed at the water-stairs, opposite the main
entrance, and was helping his niece to alight from the boat. They were
accompanied by Simon Raby, and all three were dressed in the elaborate
fashion of the court. Sir William’s suit was of richer hue and finer velvet
than that which he had worn upon the road; his cloak was shorter and more
gayly lined, while his ruffles were of the finest lace. The younger man was
even more richly attired in maroon velvet, heavily embroidered, and slashed
with gold-colored satin; and he had a face and figure that would scarcely
pass unnoticed in any garb. But neither he nor Sir William had fully
realized the beauty of their young companion until they saw her, no longer
clad in mourning, but wearing a rich gown that her uncle had provided for
the occasion. It was of gray velvet, with a yoke of rose-colored satin edged
with fur, the inner sleeves being of the same tint, as well as the facings of
the flowing ones, which came to the elbow. The gray velvet skirt was
looped up on one side, showing a farthingale of pink satin trimmed with
lace. The colors and the richness of the costume suited well her glowing
complexion and dark hair, and she made a charming picture. As they passed
through the crowded anterooms, she attracted universal attention, but
moved on unconscious of it. The painful contrast between the splendor of
these lofty rooms and the dreary ones at Kimbolton struck her generous
mind with its full force. Here she saw gay courtiers, beautiful women, and
all the magnificence of a court, and she had just come from the presence of
death. Young though she was, she had too strong a character to be moved to
forgetfulness by the brilliance of the change. Catherine had not won her
affection, but she had inspired her with a feeling of profound sympathy.
There was another shadow also on the mood of Mistress Betty; the wizard’s
strange statement had haunted her secret thoughts ever since it was made,
and the sight of the scarred stranger at the tavern disquieted her. Again and
again she told herself it was but folly, yet she could not put it from her
mind; and she was strangely depressed as she walked beside her uncle
through the crowd of courtiers, who gave place only to gaze again at the
lovely face and erect form of the young girl. Behind her came Master Raby,
secretly admiring her and comparing her fresh beauty with the charms of
the gay dames who smiled at him as he passed. At the entrance to the
presence-chamber, they were halted by the usher; but only for a moment, a
few words from Carew gaining them admittance. The room opened into the
gallery with great folding-doors, and through these the little party passed
and found themselves in a lofty apartment beyond. To Betty, the splendid
gayety of the scene was almost bewildering, and she paused a moment on
the threshold, looking about her with perfect unconsciousness of the
attention that she immediately attracted. The appearance of so beautiful a
young woman standing almost alone in the doorway created in a moment a
little sensation.
The room was crowded with lords and gentlemen, peers and peeresses; the
glitter of gold, the sheen of satin and brocade, the sparkle of jewels, made a
scene of varied beauty. Here were handsome men and the loveliest of
England’s women; on one side stood the stately figure of a prelate, on the
other some foreign ambassador; here was a gay court gallant, yonder a
reverend sage. Not far from the door stood the king surrounded by his
favored nobles. He was, at this time, growing very stout, but still retained
much of the fine appearance of his earlier manhood. His dress of velvet and
brocade was rich with gold embroidery and his breast sparkled with jewels.
His great size and the natural majesty of his bearing made him an imposing
figure, but he possessed a frank and cordial address which won him many
friends, even in those days of treason and discontent. Beyond him, almost in
the center of the room, was Queen Anne Boleyn.
Mistress Betty had but one thought, and that was of this queen; and as soon
as she had made her curtsy to the king, she passed on to greet Anne, with
feelings of mingled curiosity and resentment for the sake of the dead
Catherine. Anne Boleyn was standing in the midst of her ladies, and yellow
was the prevailing color of their costumes. The queen, a young and
beautiful woman, appeared as lovely as ever even in that hour of
unwomanly triumph. The perfect oval of her face, the brilliance of her eyes
and the beauty of her complexion had made her the star of Catherine’s
court, and she was still lovely, although it seemed to many that she looked
both ill and disturbed. She was dressed in yellow brocade with a train of
cloth of gold trimmed with ermine, a coronet of jewels resting on her
flowing curls, for she wore her hair frequently falling loose over her
shoulders. She knew that Betty Carew had been in attendance at Kimbolton,
and received her coldly, although with courtesy, as if she was at once
displeased at the thought of her late service, and willing to win her to her
own cause.
The presentation was over in a few moments and Betty was led out of the
royal circle by her uncle, who conducted her to the other side of the room.
He took her to a group by one of the windows, and Betty found that he was
introducing her to some stranger before she had yet put the queen from her
thoughts.
“My Lady Crabtree,” he said, “this is the niece of whom I wrote you. Will
you take so great a charge, albeit not an uncomely one?”
“Thou art a fool, William,” retorted a sharp voice, “to bring the wench
hither.”
Betty Carew looked up in amazement and saw an old woman standing by
her uncle; a woman, but one with so manly an air that the young girl was
not a little amused. Lady Crabtree was tall and broad-shouldered, with a
large waist and a flat chest, being one of those women whose figures are
flattened out, with a great width from side to side. She had a masculine face
with a large, hooked nose and keen black eyes; the face of a woman who
had inherited not only her father’s traits of character, but his full set of
features, even to the strong, broad teeth. Her snow-white hair was put back
under a large and ugly headdress, and her garments, though rich, were
neither stylish nor elegant; and though an old woman, it was apparent that
she would have been more at ease in doublet and hose than in a farthingale.
She was regarding Betty with a shrewd but not unkindly glance, which
seemed to comprehend not only the girl’s great beauty, but also her present
frame of mind.
“What is thy name, child?” this singular person asked; “Carew, I know,
forsooth, but it must have a handle to it.”
“My name is Betty Carew,” the young girl answered, smiling, “and I trust I
may not make my uncle sorry for bringing me to Greenwich.”
“If you do not, Mistress Betty, it will not be the fault of your face,” retorted
Lady Crabtree, calmly. “What say you, Mistress Wyatt, is not my cousin
Carew a fool to bring such wares to such a market?”
At this, Betty’s face flushed crimson, and she raised her head haughtily, but
before she could speak, a richly gowned gentlewoman, who stood beside
her new acquaintance, replied.
“Nay, Lady Crabtree,” she said, smiling, “Sir William has shown his usual
discretion and kindness to bring his niece to see the world, and I am sure
that so discreet a maid will take no harm from the contact.”
“You are a liar, Wyatt,” the old woman retorted, laughing; “that is why I
love you. To know how to lie gracefully, and at the right moment, is one of
the most charming accomplishments and one of the rarest, albeit lying is
more frequent than dying. There is the substance of a couplet for one of the
court singers; I was born a poet, but am like to die unknown for such. Well,
William,” she added, turning again to Carew, “this wench is to be my
charge, then?”
“Ay, if you will have her, madam,” he answered; “for a while, at least. They
want her at court, and I can scarcely make her a charge of any one more fit
to guard her than my Lady Crabtree.”
“I am a dragon then, William,” the old woman said, with her queer smile,
which was not mirthful; “so be it. I will take care that no wolf shall chew up
this lamb. She shall have good watching, though I think the wench is no
fool.”
“Madam,” said Betty, coldly, “I come here only at my uncle’s will; I would
rather, and it pleased him, stay at Mohun’s Ottery.”
“It would please me well enough, fair niece,” Carew answered gravely, “but
there be others, and I would fain do my duty by you and them. Therefore
you will stay with my good cousin, Lady Crabtree, until I see fit to take you
home.”
Mistress Betty bit her lip. This settled the matter for her, but it wounded her
pride to be a dependent on her uncle’s bounty and be tossed about at his
will. Nor did her new guardian attract her. However, she could only submit
to fate, and she was compelled to remain standing by Lady Crabtree while
Sir William mingled with the company, where he found many
acquaintances.
“Do not take it to heart, wench,” the old woman remarked, her shrewd eyes
detecting Betty’s sensations; “you will love this place too well erelong to
leave it. ’Tis no spot for any girl to mope in, and you are not of the moping
kind, I think. Dost know any of the great people here to-day?”
“None but the king and queen,” Betty replied, turning her eyes upon the gay
scene, which was almost bewildering to one who had lived the retired life
that she had.
“Poor child! ’tis dull to know so little of the great folk here,” said Mrs.
Wyatt, who still stood by Lady Crabtree; “yonder is my lord of Canterbury,
and beside him, Master Latimer, whom the queen has made Bishop of
Worcester. Ay, the queen,” she repeated, in reply to Betty’s questioning
glance; “he was her grace’s chaplain, and she so wrought upon the king that
he is a bishop; and because he spoke hard truth to her. And that goodly
youth to the left there is his grace of Richmond.”
“Ay, and ’tis a pity that the king can get no other son so fair,” said Lady
Crabtree, sharply; “’tis a punishment.”
“How can you tell what may happen in a short while?” retorted Mrs. Wyatt,
with emphasis.
“No boy,” said the old woman, calmly; “if we have much more ill luck,
’twill be the King of Scots.”
“They will nab thee as a traitor yet, if thy tongue wags so free, my lady,”
said Mrs. Wyatt, with a startled glance about her; but her odd companion
only laughed grimly.
“Look there, Mistress Betty,” she added in a moment; “’tis our relative, the
master of horse, Nicholas Carew, and yonder is his grace of Exeter and that
pretty boy, Courtenay. What would you say, Mistress Wyatt, if I prophesied
that he would be a king of England?”
“Hold your tongue, madam, or surely you will lose your ears,” replied Mrs.
Wyatt, but smiled at her companion’s manner.
“They can but roast me at the best, as they did the poor folks from Holland
who held such queer notions, which were doubtless no better or sounder for
the cooking,” returned Lady Crabtree, laughing harshly. “Look you, Wyatt,
they would have treated Latimer as they did these Anabaptists, and now he
is a bishop. Presently they will make me a duchess for my sound policy.”
Mrs. Wyatt, however, did not heed her; she was looking eagerly at a group
across the room.
“There is Jane Seymour,” she said quickly, “and she is radiant to-day.”
“And will be more so presently,” remarked the old woman, calmly; “my
lord of Canterbury can make this matter straight, and the Bishop of Rome
will nail no bull upon the doors of Flemish churches.”
“I pray you speak less idly, madam,” Mrs. Wyatt said, offended; “I love the
queen’s grace, as you know.”
“And so do I,” exclaimed Lady Crabtree; and then aside to Betty, “Mistress
Wyatt is a fool, my girl; yonder beauty, Jane Seymour, is like to be a queen,
and I mistake not. Mercy on us! can you look for such faithfulness in the
king’s grace when other men be weather-cocks?”
As she spoke, there was a movement in the group near by; it separated, and
the stranger of the inn came up to where Betty and her strange chaperon
were standing. He bowed low over Lady Crabtree’s hand, speaking a few
words to her in an undertone.
“’Tis my cousin’s niece,” the old woman replied in her outspoken way.
“Mistress Betty Carew, here is a gentleman who craves to be presented to
you: Sir Barton Henge.”
Although the tall stranger turned to her with a smile upon his handsome
dark face, Betty felt an instinctive repulsion. As she made him a curtsy in
response to his profound bow, she looked up, and saw behind him Simon
Raby. In an instant relief and welcome leaped into her eyes, and Henge
seeing it, turned sharply to confront the other man, and both looked
defiance at each other.
“Sir, you jostled me,” Henge said haughtily.
“You crowded in my way,” replied Raby, with disdain; “give place, I am a
friend of this lady’s!”
“Find room as you may,” retorted Henge, sharply; “I will not budge an
inch.”
“Until I make you,” said Raby, coldly. “You choose a strange place for a
brawl, sir, but ’tis worthy of you.”
“Upon my word, this is fine talk in the king’s presence!” exclaimed old
Lady Crabtree, laughing bitterly; “have done, I will have none of this! ’Tis
too soon to quarrel for a child’s pretty face. Master Raby, conduct my ward
out of this crowded spot; and you, Sir Barton, stay with me; I would speak
with you.”
Passing Henge with a cold look of contempt, Simon Raby took Betty away
across the room, and then the strange old woman turned upon her
companion, who stood scowling.
“Look you, Sir Barton,” she said in her hard tone of command; “I know you
well and I will have no sword-thrusts with yonder boy.”
“That young rake—” began Henge, fiercely.
“And what are you, sir?” she exclaimed, and laughed so harshly that even
he winced a little. “Listen to me, Henge; this beauty—this young Mistress
Carew—is penniless, and will have none of my wealth either. You want no
such lady love as this, and need make no wry faces about it. If you behave
as becomes your birth and station, you may even come and go at pleasure in
my house, where, I think, you would come if you could. But hark ye,
Barton; if I catch you at any of your devil tricks, I’ll have your ears off.
Nay, scowl not, man; an old woman like me has naught to fear from you,
and I know too much for you to brave me. Ah, I thought I saw you wince.
Farewell, sir; here comes his grace of Suffolk, and ’twould kill me if I could
not ask him to weep with me for the princess dowager; ’tis evident his grief
sets well upon his stomach;” and she turned to greet the nobleman with a
grim smile of enjoyment in the prospect.
Meanwhile Sir Barton Henge stood discomfited, staring across the room at
Betty and her cavalier with a face of fury. A man of violent temper, his first
impulse was to engage in an open brawl, but his better judgment told him
that an attempt to chastise Raby for his insolence would only end in his own
arrest in the king’s presence. So he was forced to content himself with the
reflection that when a better opportunity presented itself, he would make
good use of it.
Across the room Master Raby had forgotten him in looking at the fair face
of Mistress Betty, for ’tis love that makes the world go round.
 CHAPTER XI
OLD MADAM AT HOME
T a great change came into Betty Carew’s life. After her introduction to
the court at Greenwich, Sir William formally placed her in the charge of his
eccentric relative and went back alone to Mohun’s Ottery. The young girl,
left thus among strangers, endeavored to adapt herself to their ways as she
had before taken up existence at her uncle’s house. Deep in her heart were
hidden wounded pride and a feeling of desolation. She was poor and felt
herself but a toy in the hands of her wealthier relations, and she was alone
amidst a throng of strangers. She had not a nature which repines; the harder
elements of resolution and reserve grew faster in her heart than impulses of
love and happiness. She found her new life far more full of interest and
event than any she had ever known. Her guardian was so strange and active
an old woman that she alone furnished no little entertainment to an
observer. My Lady Wildrick Crabtree, as she was called, was the daughter
of Lord Wildrick of Wildrick Hall at Deptford; her Christian name was
Zenobia, but she was rarely called by it. She married, late in life, Lord
Crabtree, who promptly died, as the husbands of such women always do.
He was poor, but from her father Lady Crabtree inherited a large property,
as she was an only child. It had been said of her mother that, having borne
Zenobia, she could do no more in this world or the next. Yet Lady Crabtree
was a woman of strong intellect, keen wit, and an untiring energy, and was
more sought after than any woman of her age in London. Every man’s
business was her business; she knew all the gossip of the court; she knew
all the miseries of the poor, and she was quick to right a wrong and to take
up the cause of the oppressed. She could be in the saddle all day and show
no fatigue, although she had passed seventy-five; a litter was ever scorned
by her, and she walked miles through the muddy roads to aid the sick or
destitute. Time she counted as of great value; no hour could be wasted; and
so as to be out early in the morning, it was no uncommon thing for her to
have her tirewoman arrange her white hair, of which she had a quantity,
over night. At such seasons, her ladyship slept with her head propped up,
that the great superstructure might not be injured. Her boots were all made
heavy and clumsy, after the fashion of those worn by men, and her feet
being large, she had the tread of a man. The strength of her wrist and fist
had been rated high, since she knocked down the largest man upon the
street in a group that laughed at her mannish stride. A valiant protector she
was for any young woman, and as she came to know Mistress Betty, she
took a fancy to her, so that this strangely assorted couple lived very
peacefully together.
In the early part of February, when Queen Anne’s illness cast a gloom over
the court, Lady Crabtree retired for a while to her house at Deptford, where
she held a little court of her own. Wildrick Hall was a great house of stone,
built by the Normans and prepared for defence, its battlements being heavy
and its windows little more than arrow-headed slits in the thick walls.
Within, the household was like that of Mohun’s Ottery, upon a smaller
scale, and many people were daily fed under the hospitable roof. The old
gentlewoman ruling with a rod of iron, and knowing well every detail of the
house, from the kitchen to the banquet hall, was something of a terror to her
servants and attendants. In her own domain she was judge and jury, and no
man dared gainsay her will; while she drove the women like a flock of
startled chickens cackling as they fled pell-mell before my lady’s tongue, a
scourge which she was quick to supplement with a blow. She was full of
great oaths as any man, and knew how to hurl them at the ears of an
offender; yet she had, too, a large sympathy for the unfortunate and a keen
judgment of men. In this household Mistress Carew, finding her place
beside its mistress, was often diverted by her strange ways. Although there
were always many guests, it often happened that these two ate together,
while at the lower end of the large hall were long tables for the others.
One wintry day, early in February, Lady Crabtree and Betty sat at breakfast.
It was seven in the morning, my lady’s hour for breaking her fast, and all
the tables were set with tapers which flared in the gloom, only a little light
creeping in through the narrow windows. Betty’s fresh face and brilliant
coloring made a sharp contrast to the hook-nosed, strong countenance of the
old woman, whose white hair, dressed over night, was nearly concealed by
a great coif of yellow velvet. She wore a gown of gay brocade, the tight
body, full sleeves, and huge farthingale being in the style first introduced by
Queen Catherine. At her waist, on one side, hung a heavy bunch of keys,
and on the other she wore a dagger. A fur-lined mantle was thrown over her